


Song of Spring

by SmugTheSuperiorDragon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmugTheSuperiorDragon/pseuds/SmugTheSuperiorDragon
Summary: Where Thranduil falls in love instead of chasing after his dead wife's jewels because frankly that was really depressing so here's my shot at fixing it
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	1. The Trap

It was never going to be true, she whispers to the trees.

It is a soft, despairing murmur, years of fighting, of running and hiding, a lifetime of yearning come to nothing. She has never said the words out loud before, has tried her best to never think it. But here and now, at the end of her tether, so frighteningly alone, she can say it. There is nobody else to hear, nobody to risk except herself, she thinks. There is a wonderful relief to that, somehow, after all the hoping and the many disappointments. She can give up now. It doesn't matter anymore. Here, in the velvet-dark depths of Mirkwood, she can sit leaning against the gigantic tree at her back and rest for the first time in so many years. How odd, she thinks, that it had to be in the heart of enemy country that she came to her freedom. Nothing more to fight for. Only Zoe was left, and Zoe has been dead for years. I will not think about her, I will not waste my time wishing for things that were never going to be true, she says to herself. Zoe is gone, and soon I will follow. This is the end now, she thinks hazily, her eyelids drifting closed. Somehow the moss on the tree trunk feels warm and soft, so sweetly comforting. It should be damp, really, and prickly in places. But Mirkwood is a place of enchantment, so perhaps the trees are magical as well as their lord, Thranduil, King of wood and stone, who was the mighty ruler of his underground fortress, itself a living piece of enchantment, grown like a blossoming jewel in the forest. Thranduil, ancient and terrible in his power gathered over aeons, binding the spirit of the seasons to his will, the Fisher-King on a gnarled throne, the most patient of hunters, the most ruthless of enemies. She had been reckless enough to dare his wrath. If there was the slightest chance that Zoe was alive... 

But after all, Zoe was gone, had been gone for years, running to the edge of the cliff and straight down into the white waters of the Ascar at Ossiriand. She hadn't had the strength to go on anymore, perhaps had been terrified of being captured. She had left behind a ragged band of refugees, six children or the elderly to every trained fighter they'd had. Just about enough to shepherd the new-made homeless away from the fields of war, but in the end, entirely unable to put up a serious defense against a real army. Middle-earth had forgotten what peace used to feel like. Dwarves against men against elves against orcs, fire-drakes and giant wyrms from the ground, balrogs and wizards and giant spiders in the mountain woods. Nowhere is safe, Zoe, she thinks to herself, and if I can't find you then what does it matter anymore? I'll just lie here in the shadows and wait to die, Zoe, I'm too tired to go on anymore. Maybe a massive spider will come and wrap me up for a meal. They say it doesn't hurt, that there's only a kind of stupor at the end, then merciful nothingness. The thought made her smile, a twisted and bitter shape to her mouth. But the magic of the trees of Mirkwood took hold of her mind, smoothed the lines of suffering from her face, nestled her in the strength of their roots. Her limbs grew heavy, her head drooped into a hollow of the tree, and soon she was sleeping, cradled like an infant by the woods.

And the ancient roots of Mirkwood hummed and sang under the ground, carrying the message of her coming in a spreading hymn of joy that brought the forest alive even in the dwindling light of dusk. The song of spring, it felt like, and soon it reached the palace of the king, travelling through the graceful oaks of the royal halls, across the canopies and finally to the throne. A rustling of new life, a smell of sunlight on meadow-grass, and Thranduil knew. 

Exulting in his heart, the Elvenking watches his own hands. A slight, a very faint tremor across his fingers. So long it had been since the great Greenwood had begun falling to the shadows of Dol Guldur. The charms laid by his father Oropher were now barely a trace, Sindar magic remembered only as myth and legend. But the son recalls the golden glory of the forest since before the war of the Rings. He knows the words of the trees, the promise made, that when his golden girl comes, then his throne will flower again and the forces of darkness from the hellpits of Barad-dur will be driven back. He knows. He knew from the first moment he saw her, years ago, looking like an elusive glimmer of light on the ramparts of Helm's Deep. She had run from him then, from the awakened greed in his eyes. And ever since, the thought of her had set up a thrumming in his blood, the thrill of the chase coupled with the taste of sunbeams, a desperation for her that had all too little to do with the restoration of his realm. Mine, always and only mine, he had promised himself.

But when he had given chase he had found out the diamond brilliance of her mind, the courage in her. Not a warrior , not his golden girl, but a talent for escape, for misdirection and camouflage that could frustrate the keenest of hunters. Always she managed to elude him, though why she should run from the one man who could offer her the protection she needed... 

It wasn't even as if I was her enemy, he thought, restlessly shifting the heavy brocade of his robes. At a guess, in her life she had long learned never to trust in male power. For a woman so lovely and so helpless, there would always be a price to pay. And so she learned to run away and hide from men. Only for the sake of her friend, the one true sister of her heart, from what he could discover, would she brave the dangers of the journey to the Woodland Realm. The enchantment he had placed on an amulet worn by the girl Zoe Kanoulis, having failed in the abortive search for her body; well, the power of his glamour-casting was no less than it ever was. He had hidden the amulet in a clear, limpid pool in the forest and settled down to wait, hoping against hope that one day that link would draw his prize to him. He had surrounded the pool with guardian spells, had trapped the place in a slowness of time that would make the human mind first dull its fear of magic and then begin to gently drowse. And he had planted a song in the earth, so that when she came he would know.

Except now that she had come he found himself paralyzed, as if in a dream where neither his limbs nor mind could work properly. The light was fading quickly. Before his throne, a Silvan noble held forth at tedious length on the excellence of his king's rule. Probably there was some kind of request in there somewhere, but one could be forgiven for thinking the lower elf had no other desire in life than to compose lyrical verses to the Elvenking. Time is the enemy, thought Thranduil to himself, and for a species as long-lived as the Elvish, what else was there to do but stretch out the moments? He raised a bejeweled hand, slender and graceful, and his courtiers immediately gave him their devout attention, even the speech-maker falling silent. 

Forgive me, my lords, he tells them, but the day draws to a close. We will resume these matters tomorrow. For now I will release you to your leisure. Refresh yourselves, rest well. We will meet again tomorrow. And with a courteous nod he rises from his throne, vaguely surprised that no one else can see the very tiny green shoots already bursting forth from the veined wood. There is no time to lose. He strides out of the throne room, his movements significantly less languid than usual. She is here, he thinks, a faint sickness rising in his throat. I must go to her, I must explain why I - and his thoughts stopped there, beginning to circle wildly like a maelstrom in his mind.  
__________________________________________


	2. The Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it doesn't quite go as it's meant to but this is hardly supposed to be a conventional courtship.

Under the dappled moonlight the Elvenking rides, his huge elk steed stepping as softly and quietly as when the two of them are bent on a cunning ambush of a nervous prey. The forest grows darker and more heavily silent as they go together into its heart, to the mossy, densely shadowed clearing where the girl lies sleeping. They approach from the other side of the pond, the water still clear and luminous even in the crowding darkness. Thranduil throws a perfunctory glance at its depths, finds that the amulet still floats gleaming on the pebbled bed. But for a wild, frantic moment he cannot see the girl, he wonders if she has managed to fight off his enchantments somehow, if she has run from him again. It is his steed who sees her first, stopping by the water with his head lowered, the splendid horns nearly brushing the moss as if he bows. Thranduil slides neatly off his old friend's back. For this foray into the woods he has dispensed with his court dress, wearing only a deceptively simple huntsman's tunic with a soft leather jerkin. The usual jewels are missing from his hands, and he has left behind his sword in its scabbard. If he needs a blade tonight, he will know the fight is already lost. The thought of it is terrifying. He braces himself to be calm, to be as gentle and patient as he knows how when he stoops over his prey.

She's thinner than he thought she would be, the skin stretching tautly across her collarbones as if she hasn't eaten properly in years. Her hands are curled up and tucked beneath her head, but he can see the slender build of her wrists, the blue veins running down almost to her elbows. She looks like a starved child instead of the glorious warrior woman of whom he has heard so much. This slip of a girl couldn't possibly have fought him for so long, could she? It must have been a mistake, the reports he had had of her. It must have been hell for her. She must hate him. Was it better not to wake her, not to see that fear in her face? He puts just the tips of his fingers on her temple, smoothing the fine strands of hair back from her face. She doesn't move, her face still hidden in the cup of her hands. Very carefully, almost against his conscious will, he begins to unravel the enchanted sleep she is in. Her breathing changes a little, and she shifts where she lies. Only a few moments more and she will wake and remember where she is. He is dreading it. He can't wait for it.

The moss smells different now, she thought hazily. Still warm, but somehow more raw. She stretched lazily, rubbing the corners of her eyes. The light had changed, so she must have been asleep for an hour at least. The twilight in the forest - and then she remembered. Zoe is dead, she thought, I did it all for nothing, and the tiredness and despair clutched at her heart again. I should kill myself, really, she thought. It's not as if there is anything left to fight for. The mere thought of finding her way out of Mirkwood, of going back into hiding, even the prospect of getting up from the hollow beneath the tree - she had been so tired for so long, and now there wasn't even -

A slight rustling brought her head rearing up, her eyes full of horror to find the elf kneeling close, far too close, almost on top of her with his hand over her face. She scrambled backwards immediately, her head hitting the tree trunk with a noticeable thump. No, no, no, she whispered under her breath. This is terrifying, this is so much worse than one of the monster spiders, this will not be a merciful death, she knew, this is capture, it was a trap, she knew it was probably going to be a trap from the beginning, how the hell could she have been stupid enough to just go to sleep, because if she was honest with herself then she must obviously be the stupidest woman alive...

Thranduil can see the terror in her face, in every line of her body as she presses back against the tree as if wishing to disappear into it. Her frantic breathing is the only thing he can hear, her eyes wide and staring, not even at him, but darting around looking for a way to escape. This is not how it should be, he thinks, but as he stretches out his hand to her she shrinks from him, she actually flinches as if he's threatening her. I have no choice, he thinks, as he reaches into her mind, and the roiling fear in there is still a shock, but it is undoubtedly necessary to calm her if only she would listen. She realizes immediately what he's doing, and her mouth trembles as if he's hit her. He feels the fear, the despair as she tries to keep him out. No, no, no, she is screaming inside her head, and he has no choice but to use another enchantment, to make her sleepy and hazy again. Her head droops even as her fingers are scrabbling against the wood. She wants to get up, her whole instinct is to leap up and run, but she's cornered and weak and barely able yet to understand his words in her mind.

It's alright, I will not hurt you, I swear, she heard inside her head, a voice deep and soft that should have been comforting if it hadn't been trying to take over her mind. Terrible fears rushed through her mind, the stories she'd heard of wizards using sorcery to enslave a human mind. Somehow it had never occurred to her that elves might also have such power. We learn something new everyday, she thought half hysterically, and what do I do now? I have no weapon, no plan, I won't even have my mind left in a minute. Why didn't I run, why didn't I just kill myself instead of waiting here and falling asleep? I only ever wanted it all to be over, how stupid have I become, to think Zoe might still be alive, here in Mirkwood? Oh, Zoe, Zoe, you said you were always going to wait for me, how could you leave me alone like this, what am I supposed to do now? And suddenly the grief was flooding through her mind, drowning out everything else, even that terrible voice, and she bowed her head and wept like a child.

Thranduil feels the tide of grief even before the tears come, before he can see her shoulders shuddering from the effort of trying to keep it in. He can't remember the last time he saw anyone cry, he has never been in their minds to feel aching sorrow like this. He crouches over the girl, gripping her arms, but in the state she is she doesn't even notice. It's his fault, for going too deep into her mind when she was still half asleep, all her defenses down. She's at the end of her tether now, and the worry and exhaustion of years has left her so weak, it's not fair to even try to tell her to be calm. The best he can do is hold her, stroking helplessly at her hair and down her back, whispering useless things to her that she couldn't even hear. He soothes her mind with the charm, but it only makes her feel weaker and more fearful. Somewhere in there he can feel shame and disgust with herself for giving in, but at least she's stopped fighting him now. Slowly the sobs subside, and she huddles quiescent in his arms, her head tucked into his shoulder to hide her face. My poor girl, my sweet love, he thinks achingly, I'm so sorry, for all of it, I didn't mean it, it wasn't ever supposed to be like this. The words are in her mind, but she's too exhausted to make sense of them. She knows only that she's lost, and been caught. The thought of suicide sits there in her head and he can't bear it. He never knew it was possible for someone to be so tired they couldn't even work up the strength to kill themselves. It's my fault, but I'll never let you be hurt again, it will be alright now, he tells her, this time with words. But she is barely able to hear him, the spell has put her in a daze so strong she's forgetting what she's supposed to be afraid of. Some instinct of pride makes her put her hands on his chest to push him away, but he only needs to tighten his arms around her for her to give in, a choked little sob escaping her.

Don't cry, please don't cry anymore, you are safe now. You will always be safe with me. There's nothing to be afraid of any longer, you must believe me. It's alright, nobody will hurt you now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Don't cry, please. The words he was whispering in her ear didn't seem to make sense. He is speaking as if we are lovers, she thought vaguely, he's holding me as if he's worried about me, but how can it be real? It's a trap, some kind of game perhaps, and how the hell am I supposed to know how to fight what feels like kindness? This is terrible. I'm never going to get away from here, I know it already. If he was truly kind he would kill me now. This is too much to bear.

You can't ask me to kill you, says Thranduil out loud. She can feel his rejection of the idea in her mind nonetheless, and it's there in his tone as well, in the sudden tightening of his arms. It's terribly confusing, to hear him speak and feel his words at the same time. He puts his hand on her forehead and pushes her face back to make her look at him. I won't do it, he says. Don't ask me again. Anything else, but not that. I can't let you end yourself, and I won't let you go, not after all these years of waiting to find you. I know it feels like defeat to you, but if you let me I could make you happy, I could make it all up to you if you gave me the chance. 

She blinks, the words reaching her as if from a very long distance. I don't understand any of this, she says, hardly knowing if she is really speaking the words or only thinking them. This is not really true, is it? I'm dreaming a very strange dream, surely. He shakes his head no, his eyes softening as he takes in the confusion on her face. But I must be dreaming, she argues feebly. Or else I've gone insane, or - or you are insane or - or - oh, I don't know anything anymore, I can't think properly, this is not fair!

I know, I know it's not fair, he says, stroking the back of her head. I'm sorry I went into your mind, it was only to calm you down. I'm sorry, he says again, and kisses her hair, just above her ear. I'm sorry, while planting another kiss on her cheek, another on her eyebrow, one on the tip of her nose. She's so adorably baffled by this, it almost makes him laugh. She squirms a bit and repeats stubbornly that it's not fair, even while he's moved down to kiss along her neck, up along her jawline, on the sweet dimple on her chin. One last kiss at the corner of her mouth, and then he pulls her back into his shoulder, patting her comfortingly on the back. Everything will be alright, my love, you needn't worry, he says, lifting her up so that she is lying half across his lap. Her face looks less pinched now, he's glad to see, though she's still worried about things, specifically about her sanity. She can't let go of that worry, not with the spell clouding her mind. He doesn't dare to remove it, he won't risk her panicking or wanting to escape again. I won't keep you enchanted forever, my love, he tells her, it's just until you get used to me. You'll learn soon enough not to be afraid of me and then you won't need this anymore. I'll teach you to love me, I know you can if you try. You'll see. It'll all be perfect when we're really together.

It does sound perfect, not having to think about things, she thinks to herself drowsily. And it is nice, being held and comforted like this. Her last thought before she drops back off to sleep is, I just wish he wasn't such a massive creep.

Thranduil looks genuinely offended. This is absolutely not how this was supposed to be, and when she wakes up he is resolved that they are going to have a very serious discussion about what exactly constitutes creepiness and how technically the king of the Woodland Realm cannot be accused of creepy behavior simply because he chooses a bride in a slightly unorthodox way, which most people would find acceptable and possibly quite romantic. He picks up his chosen bride and carries her to his elk, wondering if it's just his imagination or that the ancient and fearsome beast might not also be wearing a somewhat judgemental expression. Should've brought a horse.


	3. The Silk Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which intentions are offered.

She wakes under a canopy of jewels, the soft light gleaming from the kaleidoscope colours in the most hypnotic pattern she has ever seen. She blinks, and blinks again. The smell of the moss is gone now, and she cannot remember how the leaves in the forest changed to this. She's lying on something very soft, beautiful billowing white all around her, the most luxurious, expensive kind of bed there is - 

Suddenly her eyes fly wide open in horror. He was there in the forest, she has just remembered, the elf who showed her kindness, except he entered into her mind and made her weak and confused, and now she's here, so that must mean - something? She is frantically searching the corners of her mind, trying to find a reason for any of this happening, trying to find traces of his mind, his voice telling her impossible things. She forgets to breathe, almost, the panic is so strong. I was going to kill myself, but then I fell asleep, she thinks, and there's that familiar spurt of shame again, disgust at her own stupidity. I fell asleep, how could I just go to sleep when Zoe is dead? Only that I get so tired sometimes, and then instead of a monstrous spider there was the elf when I woke up, but he behaved as if - her thoughts stopped there, unable to work through what is real and how much a dream. Did he kiss my ear? I must have imagined it. Am I imagining this now? Is this a very strange near-death experience, where my mind would believe that I am being rescued rather than hunted? She supposes it might be true. Fairy tale rescues happen to beautiful princesses, not to orphaned servant-girls like me, but when has that ever stopped girls like me from dreaming that a prince might come? The whole thing seems very strange, she thinks, still hypnotized by the mosaic of colours on the ceiling. He didn't look like a prince, she thinks doubtfully, more like one of the Silvan huntsmen who ride out on patrol. Do all elves live in such beautiful rooms? Why would he bring me here, instead of killing me, or at least having me thrown into a cell to await execution? I am not an elf, I am not high-born, he can't possibly want to - 

I must have imagined it, she decides. At her best she has only ever been reasonably attractive when she took the trouble, and she knows very well how hagged and shabby she's been looking for years now. I wouldn't pass muster as a kitchenmaid in a good household nowadays, she thinks, it is not possible that what I thought happened really happened. It must be some kind of projection on my part, subliminal wish-fulfilment, possibly. She tries to remember what one of her tutors once told her about reality perceptions branching away at every stage of madness. That'll be it, then, probably. Perhaps I can claim an insanity defense.

Don't be ridiculous, whispers that part of her mind which is always worrying and gloomy. You're not getting a trial, nor a champion to defend you. Such things are for the high-born, lords and princesses, not commoners wanted for theft and treason. A quick death is the most I can hope for, she thinks, and in this room I might still find something to do it with. I wonder if one of those jewelled edges up there might do the trick. If I could reach up far enough...

Across the room, Thranduil watches her fingers curl on the counterpane with something very like despair. He has waited hours for her to wake, to give her time to recover from his assault on her mind. He had cradled her in his arms when he brought her out of the forest and into his home, settling her into his own bed. He had had food brought to his chamber, ready for when she woke. There was wine, he'd had them put star flowers in the room, he'd rehearsed his speech, a damn good one, he thought angrily, all about protecting her and honouring her and promises about eternal loyalty. And there she lies, in his bed, wondering how she can kill herself. This was really not how it was supposed to be.

A salutary lesson in humility, he thinks, with a certain amount of grim humour. He was not without arrogance, but neither was he deluded about his own attractions. Since the death of his wife, mother of his only son, he had not lacked for offers to fill the place of his queen. Without undue cynicism, he understood perfectly the very human impulses that drove Elven ladies of the proudest bloodlines to debase themselves at his feet for the sake of a throne. Elves were popularly supposed to love only once, but you certainly wouldn't know it from the way they carried on at court. Not that brief sexual encounters could be classed with anything resembling the tenderer emotions, but immortal life for all intents and purposes certainly put more of a strain on monogamy than commoners could be allowed to know. He had only given himself leeway to enjoy such pleasures after the death of his wife, that sweet little dove of his whose face he could hardly remember anymore. Principally he associated her memory with guilt, for he had failed her badly. He had cosseted her, showered her with jewels, let her cling to him and protected her from an autocratic father who was far more inclined to toady to a royal prince than show any real affection to any of his own children. Thranduil had hoped that motherhood would give his pretty wife the strength of will for her son's sake that she lacked for herself, but secretly he knew that she would have been happier as his mistress than his queen. She had been kept too sheltered to understand the maneuvers of the power-hungry at court, and at the same time she had been far too disposed to give favours to sycophants rather than to the worthy. Moreover, life at Mirkwood had been difficult for her, for she had hated hunting, and she had complained constantly of their relative solitude. The grace and opulence of Rivendell had been far more to her taste, and no matter how much he indulged her fondness for jewels and silks, he could not give her the opportunity for constant admiration and applause that she had had at her father's home at Rivendell. His own father, the King Oropher, had arranged the marriage and had no fault to find with her bloodline, but Thranduil knew well in what contempt the former King had held the soft southern courtly life. Oropher had received his daughter-in-law's ceaseless complaints during her pregnancy with stony silence, had refused to let her return to Rivendell for the duration. Thranduil knew what she was by that time, a lovely, foolish little thing of great sentimentality and no real depth of feeling. He had not attempted to make her understand why his heir should be born in Mirkwood, nor had he ever reproached her with her stupidity. He had taken her to wife willingly, mindful of his own honour he had loyally concealed the worst of her tantrums from his father and the rest of his lords. By the time she died they had begun to inhabit almost entirely separate households, and she'd had very little interest in their boy, claiming that her poor health would not allow her to nurse him herself, nor have him near her when he was being noisy. He had struggled not to feel relief when she fled from Dagorlad after the death of Oropher, and the shock of her passing so soon after his father's had barely reached him, dulled as he had become with grief. Though only bitterness and shame had kept him captive for decades after, he had been more than glad to have it rumoured abroad that real grief had crippled his mind and turned him recluse. For the sake of his son Legolas he had forbidden all mention of the dead princess, and thankfully the boy lacked neither the strength nor courage of his father's line. From the hour of his son's birth, Thranduil had put all the love, all the deep loyalty of which he was capable into the little boy with Oropher's eyes, the essentially sweet nature of his mother, but without the weakness that had gone with it. When the time came to choose a wife for his son, Thranduil knew he would pick a woman of character rather than bloodline. He had seen the way the boy kept looking at Tauriel, a woman as unlike a spoiled brat of a princess as could be imagined. A warrior, warm-hearted, trustworthy and loyal, she would hold the honour of his house safe in her hands. It occurred to him that he must try to discover her own feelings in the matter, though he doubted there could be any real competition for his son. Fatherly bias, of course, but if there was a stronger or more handsome prince in existence he would confess himself extremely surprised. As for his own troubles of the heart - well, that need concern nobody except himself and the thin girl lying in his bed, presently clutching at white silk as if at the bars of a prison cell. 

What shall I do with you, my love? He asks the question in his mind alone, and is startled into immobility when she quickly turns her head to look at him.

There is a tense silence in the room, both of them wondering how much damage it would do to to speak.

He doesn't know how to make her fear subside without tricking her mind into sleep, but even before he reaches for the spell she realizes his intention and pushes herself upright, one hand raised as if to physically push his will out of her mind. He puts his own hands out pleadingly.

Please, he says, please don't fight me. This is better for you, you should not - 

He is not prepared for her to whip the silk sheet off the bed and throw it at him. For a moment all he can see is the white brilliance of the cloth, and then through that, the shadow of her shape scrambling off the bed and making a straight run at the door. He has the presence of mind to awaken the runes in the wood at the threshold, sending her staggering back into the room. The ancient inscriptions glow suddenly bright gold, casting their light into her upraised face. She backs slowly away, as if from a predator. Then, as if compelled by a higher force, she turns and looks at him, struggling to disentangle himself from his own bedsheet, his usually immaculate hair looking distinctly ruffled as he fights off the attacking laundry.

Who the hell _are_ you? she says, in a tone far from complimentary.

And that's when he trips and falls over on his face.


End file.
